


Colourless

by fragile



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Minor Violence, Side Julie / Susie, The Legion Never Murdered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28303125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragile/pseuds/fragile
Summary: Frank Morrison had always been content to live in a world without colour, but it seemed the world had other plans for him.(dead by baelight server's secret santa 2020)
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Frank Morrison
Comments: 14
Kudos: 92
Collections: Dead by Baelight Secret Santa 2020





	Colourless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TuffDwightWest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuffDwightWest/gifts).



> **to emil:** happy holidays!! i hope you enjoy this little fic!! you're an absolute delight in the server, and i was so excited to write this for you!! ❤️ i included your requests from the prompt channel as well, hehe.

There is only one thing people strive towards, the only thing people think their miserable lives are worth living for: the prospect of seeing the world in colour. It’s hammered into your head when you’re young— students are taught about the colours they cannot see, how glorious it is to see what shade the skies are or how the trees appear during the autumn months. There was only one way to achieve this goal, of course, and that was the minuscule chance of finding your soulmate.

Frank Morrison, quite honestly, thought this whole system was absolute bullshit. 

He was twenty and as rebellious as they came— he loved who he loved, rolled his eyes over those who criticized him. Frank never gave a shit about the shades of the sky or what colours the trees were in autumn. He saw the world in different hues of grey: when he looked in the mirror, he knew his hair was the darkest shade while his skin and eyes were much lighter. He did not allow a colourless world to be the drab place society made it out to be, his skin marked with tattoos inked in various greys.

Of course, the world likes to work in funny ways. Maybe it just didn’t like the idea of someone running from destiny. For you see— it is a chilly night in early December when Frank Morrison’s vision changes. He has just come off from a double shift at Ormond’s only coffee shop, walking down the familiar streets back to the apartment he rented alongside his best friends. He strolls past an alleyway, bobbing his head to his music without the slightest care in the world.

It takes him a moment to notice that in place of light and dark greys, there are desaturated colours. It is enough to make him freeze in his tracks, stare wordlessly with his mouth agape as he takes it all in. Christmas lights strung from the buildings nearby flashed multiple colours— some he didn’t know the names of. He pulls off his earphones, which were a faded green, and the music continues to blare into the otherwise silent night. He stands there looking at them for longer than he should have. He was completely fascinated with the pale cream that was his complexion and the faint pigmentation of his tattoos.

He drops his hands, his eyes taking in each and every single new piece of information about the world. His throat has constricted on its own accord and he finds himself blinking back the tears he didn’t know had formed. So many thoughts flood his mind that it all becomes overwhelming. _Everything was so beautiful._ He didn’t know the world could be so beautiful.

“Shit,” is all Frank manages to breathe out, his eyes darting from side-to-side with a wild look in them.

If he was seeing these different colours, it meant that his soulmate was nearby. With that revelation, a type of instinct came over him: it was a desire that burned at the bottom of his stomach, a pull of his heartstrings that were begging him, _begging him,_ to search the area. It was almost like a game— Frank knew the closer he’d come to his soulmate, the brighter the colours would become. All he’d have to do was look them in the eyes and he’d have all of this, forever.

… But Frank Morrison thought the whole system was absolute bullshit. He was _better_ than the rest of the miserable world, desperate to find out who their true love was. He… He didn’t even _give_ a shit about going back to greys. The shades that flooded his vision weren’t anything spectacular, _really._ He clenches his jaw, shoves his earphones back into his ears, letting the music drown out his mind.

It takes all the willpower he can muster, but he continues back home. And slowly, but surely, with each step he took— the world faded back to black and white. 

By the time he returns home, he has dismissed the whole experience as nothing more than a stupid little daydream. And maybe he could have fooled himself. Frank spends the rest of the night binging shitty Hallmark movies, stuffed between the couch by his friends, laughing alongside them when it called for it. If one didn’t know any better, it would have been an evening just like any other.

It is incredibly difficult, however, to ignore the little thought in his head that asked: _How much better would this all have looked like in colour?_

“Franklin, get your ass over here!”

Frank silently curses under his breath, moving away from the register. Julie, his best friend, gives him a sympathetic little look as she takes over for him. “Hi, welcome to Starbucks!” She cheerily told the customer, her voice a little higher than it normally was, “What can I get you today?”

It was the next afternoon, rush hour to be precise, and the people of Ormond were demanding their coffee. Without it, they were monsters: ravenous and easily irritable. In this state, the only pleasure they derived was from attacking those who could not fight back. That’s how Frank justified fucking up the past four orders, anyway. His boss, a cranky man with jowls so low he perpetually frowned and deep-set eyes, didn’t seem to find this as a proper excuse.

He was holding his head, rubbing at his forehead because every word Frank spoke gave him a migraine. He had hired the high school dropout because his best employee begged him to, but he regretted it every single moment of his life. “You have to pay closer attention,” he told him, “I _can’t_ keep repeating things, Franklin. You’ve been here half a year now.”

“Frank,” Frank tells him, for the millionth time, tapping his nametag. It had once said his full name, but he had taken a coin and scratched off the last three letters. To the dropout, it was _slightly_ hypocritical that he had to keep repeating his preferred name to his boss. 

The old man simply rolls his eyes and dismisses him. To be fair, he had a point. Frank’s head just wasn’t into preparing green teas and mocha lattes. It was as if he was doomed to be trapped in that moment, watching the multi-coloured lights as they danced for all eternity.

“Alright. What _happened_ back there?”

The rest of the shift had gone as well as it could have— he didn’t make any more mistakes, forcing himself to snap out of the fake memory. He currently found himself sitting on the bench outside his work with Julie— they’d dated for a few months back in high school until she had found her soulmate. 

Frank didn’t mind; it’d be stupid to waste time mourning. In this world, relationships with people who weren’t soulmates were never made to last and both parties understood that. It wasn’t anything to fret over, it was simply the way things worked. And though Frank flipped off the ways of the world, he couldn’t ask his friends to fall from grace alongside him. 

Back to her question— he wasn’t quite sure what to answer. It’d be so easy to lie to her face, to say he was just not in the mood to work today. But when she looks at him, it’s like she’s staring into his soul. And _fuck,_ he finds himself wishing to see what she saw: the colour of his eyes, of their uniform, of her short pretty hair that only looked near white to him. He clicks his tongue, the small barbell clicking against his teeth. 

“I…” He takes a deep breath, almost afraid to cement the truth of the situation. “I saw colours.”

_“What?!”_ She shrieks from the pure excitement of it all, causing the pedestrians to glance at them before she flips them off and turns back to Frank. “What? When?” She moves closer to him, her gaze searching his face. 

Julie lifts her arm, shaking the bracelet on her wrist. The charms on it collide with one another, creating a pretty twinkling noise. “What colour is my bracelet?” 

“I… I don’t know,” he admits.

She frowns at him. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I didn’t _see_ my soulmate,” Frank explains, fidgeting a little under her burning stare, “I left.”

Julie doesn’t say anything for a heartbeat before she draws back. Had it been any other person, she would have shook their shoulders and asked _“why?!”_

But that was Frank. He had such strong principles and it was something she admired in him. He had turned his back on the rules of the world. And though she had been so enamored with him, she found she could not resist the urge to be with the love of her life. So instead, she sucks in her breath and says: “Okay.” She tilts her head. “Do you regret it?”

There was a danger in not seeking out one’s soulmate if they were close by— people came and went after all. It was possible they’d be a missed opportunity, a once in a lifetime event akin to a comet tearing through the skies as it passed Earth. 

Frank should be shrugging, saying he didn’t really give a fuck, but he doesn’t do either of those things. Instead, his eyes fall to their shoes. “I don’t know,” he finds himself saying. 

Julie rests a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, though it was hard to feel comforted by the gesture. His… soulmate. They must have seen the desaturated colours as well. Had they attempted to look for him? Did they panic once the colour left their vision? Shit. Now he finds himself feeling crappy for someone he didn’t _even_ know.

He couldn’t give in to the feeling, like he had done something immoral. If they were _really_ his soulmate, someone who was made to be his perfect fit, then they’d understand that the way the world worked was fucking _stupid_ anyway. Maybe, just maybe, they’d done the same thing he had: left to remain in greys and didn’t look back.

Frank lets the days pass without another thought reserved for his soulmate. He’s out with his friends, strolling through the streets of Ormond. The four had gone out to buy presents for one another. They were now all carrying gift bags that were stapled shut to keep impatient eyes from peeking. Frank had never expected to do anything like this: for the longest time, he’d had no one and nothing. He’d been bounced around from foster home to foster home, labelled a problem child, and thrown to the wolves.

He had grown up tough, feeling as if no one in the world would ever break through the defenses he’d put up around his heart. But his friends had done just that. Back in high school, the four of them went by The Legion: troublesome rebels who stole and tagged up storefronts and even started small fires. They had done all these things to release the anger that had been festering within them all their lives.

It’d been the first time Frank had ever thought he could have kindred spirits. Though, as they grew older, they found their anger had diminished. They had torn up Ormond and that’d been outlet enough. And so, they retired their group name and allowed themselves to become Frank, Joey, Julie, and Susie once more.

“Did you hear about Lucy?” Susie asks, her voice as delicate as her features. He looks to her— she was the shortest of the four of them, only up to his chest. She had boasted that her hair was strawberry pink, though he hadn’t the slightest idea of what that’d look like. 

He echoes his other friends: “Nope.”

“They say she was murdered a few days ago,” Susie lifts a finger, waggling it in front of her. Her tone has become as sinister as it could possibly be, which wasn’t much: “They found her in an alleyway, all cut up and without her heart.”

“No way,” Joey scoffs, fidgeting slightly to adjust his bags, “Lucy Campbell?”

“Mhm. You can google it if you don’t believe me.”

And so damned if they aren’t all crowded around Joey the instant he whips out his phone, searching up their former classmate’s name. As Susie had anticipated, there are results upon results about the brutal murder. She pokes the top result, an Ormond Times article written by a crime reporter named Jed Olsen. 

“Lucy Campbell, twenty-one, was found last Monday…” Joey reads out loud, “Blah blah blah… Although police officials are keeping silent, many speculate that this was committed by the infamous serial killer Ghostface...”

“Who’s that?” Frank interjects.

“I don’t know,” Joey replies with a little shrug of his shoulders.

“How do you guys _not_ know?” Julie retorts, like she was offended by her friends’ lack of knowledge of psychopathic murderers, “He’s only one of the most dangerous serial killers out there. Had a whole spree in America, but was never caught. And, _and—_ he only targets people who’ve found their soulmates.”

“I guess you’d two better sleep with one eye open,” Frank dryly jokes, earning a punch in the shoulder from her.

“That’s awful.” Joey frowns, still looking at the photo taken of the crime scene. “Their poor soulmates.”

That silences the group. The untimely death of a soulmate is said to be so grief-inducing that the other party loses sight in their eyes entirely. Frank had felt a type of loss when his world returned to its grey origins, but he could only imagine how gut wrenching it must feel: to have a full range of colour only to lose it entirely. To see nothing but darkness for the rest of one’s life.

Suddenly, a murder in Ormond wasn’t as exciting as it first sounded.

“Maybe they’ll catch the guy,” Frank reassures as the four of them continue to walk. The mood had dipped considerably, but as their former leader, he took it upon himself to try to reset the vibe.

“No way,” Julie replies with a little shake of her head, “They couldn’t catch him in the states, no way our dumbass cops are going to be able to do anything about it.”

“They’re only _speculating_ that it's Ghostface,” Susie points out.

Joey nods. “True. It could have been a one-time thing.”

“Or a copycat,” Frank adds, “Come on. What would an American serial killer want in _Ormond,_ of all places?”

It’s evening when the topic of the serial killer returns to the mouths of the four young adults, after they came out of a screening of the original _Black Christmas_ in the town theater. Though it’d been something they had been looking forward to, the experience leaves them feeling particularly sour. It was clear that Joey’s words had remained stuck in their heads.

“I’d bet anything that Ghostface doesn’t have a soulmate,” Julie tells them as she kicks away a loose pebble, “And he’s just killing because of it.”

“Sounds like the plot of _Heartbreaker,”_ Frank replies, thinking back to the cheesy horror film. It had an interesting premise, but was terribly executed: the killer wasn’t even scary and they had relied on too many jumpscares.

“Maybe he does have a soulmate,” Susie counters her girlfriend’s words, “And they don’t know about his secret double life.”

“Mm,” Joey’s brows furrow, causing his forehead to wrinkle. “I don’t know. If you live with the dude, how are you _not_ going to know he’s out slashing people?” He pushes his dreadlocks over his shoulder.

Susie huffs. “It happens all the time! I watched a whole documentary on this lady whose soulmate was actually this master jewel thief. She didn’t know how he was paying all their bills, but she never asked!”

“Shit, I wouldn’t either,” Julie snorts.

“A master jewel thief is way different than a serial killer. I bet the thief never came home with people’s guts on them.”

“Gross! Joey!” Susie sticks out her tongue in disgust, coiling herself tighter around Julie’s arm. It was as if when they were together, they could not stay apart. “I don’t need _that_ mental image in my head.”

“It’s true!”

“Or,” Julie points out, “Ghostface’s soulmate is in on it.”

Frank makes a face. Of course, there were always people who grew infatuated over killers, but he had never understood why. The dropout had done a lot of shit things in his life, but _murder?_ When he and Julie were still together, she had asked him if he would ever kill for her and he had answered with a simple no. 

Supposedly, the link between soulmates is one of the most powerful forces out there. It was what everyone claimed, anyway. But would someone actually be willing to look the other way when it came to murder? There _had_ to be limits to someone’s love. Even worse, what if they actively participated in the crimes— like some sort of accomplice?

He thinks he would rather remain in a black and white world for the rest of his life.

The next crime is reported roughly a week later, a couple was done in the same way that Lucy had died. They were found in their home, tied to their kitchen chairs, even holding hands in some mockingly cutesy manner. “This appears to have been a Ghostface crime,” the police chief had said, in a gravelly voice that held much authority.

A Ghostface crime. It was official now: the police had issued a town-wide curfew that was mandatory to follow and those who had to be out were told to use the buddy system. People were instructed not to speak about being able to see any type of colours, lest the serial killer would be listening in search of his next victim.

It was almost Christmas now. As the only one in that tiny Starbucks who didn’t have a soulmate, Frank was now in charge of closing up the shop. The boss hadn’t been too thrilled about that, more because he absolutely didn’t trust the dropout with such an important task. 

Julie had offered to stay behind, but he wasn’t about to endanger her. Besides, Frank had seen enough horror movies to know how to escape if needed. … He had made that joke to her, and at least she had _attempted_ to crack a smile at it.

Frank had just locked up the cafe when it happened again— he nearly dropped the keys in his surprise, watching as his vision flooded with the pale hues that hinted at a more vivid colour. His eyes widen and he’s staring at himself in the reflection of the cafe door: he’d been told what he looked like, obviously, but it was _different_ to see it for himself.

With the glass and the already faint colours, he’s only barely able to make out the brown in both his tousled locks and his irises. In that moment, he becomes a modern-day Narcissus, entranced with the man looking back at him. The scar over the bridge of his nose that never went away stands out amongst his skin, along with the tattoo on his neck of a skull in a jester cap.

His fingers brush over it. He had thought it was cool, once upon a time, but even with the desaturated hues, he can tell it was badly coloured in. He clicks his tongue at that, loathing the idea that some tattoo artist out there was scamming those without full vision. He tears his stare away from the door to glance around. He could worry about that some other time. More importantly— his soulmate was here somewhere. 

_Was he actually going to look for them?_

His body, his instincts are screaming at him to do so. His heart is begging for it, accelerating so fast he feels like he just rode a roller coaster. Most people didn’t get a second chance. So he should take it. He should. He’s gripping the door handle as if he was afraid his body was going to move on its own accord— lost in a feral frenzy in an attempt to hunt down his other half.

Then again… why the _fuck_ would they be out here at such a weird hour? He pulls out his phone with a trembling hand, confirms what he already knew: it’s midnight now and curfew began at eleven. He shoves it into his pocket and slowly lets the handle go. He waits for a moment. Though his body is still growing hot with anticipation, he remains in control of it. 

His instincts lead him towards the direction and he follows in a slow pursuit. Though the colours do not brighten entirely, he begins to see new hues in the red bricks and store displays that he did not previously. With each step he draws closer, he knows that his soulmate is also experiencing the shifts in saturations that he is. 

It is then that he hears a blood-curdling scream. He freezes as his blood becomes solid ice, his heart no longer jumping from want— but from a primal fear. Frank had two options: he could see what the fuck was going on or he could turn heel and run.

And Frank Morrison was not a runner.

He braces himself, kicks his body into full gear as he makes his way to where he heard the noise. It came from behind one of the empty storefronts and he quiets himself as best he can as he approaches the back.

He weaves through the alley, making careful note not to step too loudly in fear of being heard. He desperately takes in quiet gulps of air in order to stop his breath from becoming a pant. His hands trace the wall and though there is only dim light to guide him, one thing becomes increasingly clear: his vision is becoming more vivid. He was close to them.

Frank peers around the corner and he … 

He can’t believe what he’s seeing. He _doesn’t_ believe what he’s seeing.

It’s Ghostface.

Ghostface is attacking his soulmate.

She’s on the ground and he’s straddled on top of her. He can’t make out his outfit, it’s black in colour— as black as Frank’s normal night sky. There’s black liquid under her— no, not black. _Red._

Fear seizes him up and for a moment all he sees is darkness and he’s afraid it’s forever oh god he’ll never see again but then she screams again and it snaps him out of it. 

The young woman is sobbing and pleading and kicking her feet. He can see how red and wet her face is, but even injured she still had enough strength to fight. _He could still save her._ Frank narrows his eyes and scans the area. There wasn’t much to work with, so he quickly snatches up a rock— not too big, but hopefully, it’d be enough to divert the killer’s attention.

He flings it with all his might, throwing it across the way. This works only partly as intended— Ghostface rises, pulling out the knife from the girl’s stomach. He slowly turns towards Frank’s direction and he’s met with a ghoulish white mask.

The killer slowly reaches up and with practiced ease, uses his free hand to wipe the blood off the blade. 

Then he begins to step towards him.

Oh shit.

_Oh shit._

Frank’s eyes dart from the mask to the girl, who is dazedly pressing her hands against the wound. He tightens his shaking hands into fists. Attempting to sound much braver than he felt, he blurts out: “Come and get me, Fuckface!”

The killer obliged his request, beginning to walk faster, and Frank takes a full second— dread rooting his heels into the ground— before he darts off. Maybe insulting the well-known serial killer with such a childish insult was not the way to go. Because he finds himself running for his fucking life. 

All he can think is: _Oh god, oh god, please don’t let us die here._

He pulls out his phone, trying to dial the emergency number, but his hands are so clammy and he’s kicking himself because that’s every fucking horror movie clichè ever but it’s _so fucking hard_ to run from a homicidal maniac and try to unlock your phone at the same goddamn time.

Frank dares to glance behind him, only to see the killer gaining on him. The knife gleams against the light and a frightened noise slips out of him before he can stop it. He makes a sharp right, weaving deeper into the alleyway. His feet are pounding hard against the pavement, but he can’t hear the other set behind him. It was as if the killer was floating rather than walking, the ghostlike presence he was known for.

He knows these alleyways like the back of his hand, from years of the Legion using them as an escape route when the heat was on them. He puts all those years of athletics to good use, weaving this way and that through the labyrinth to get the killer off his tail. At the very least, he needed to stall for enough time for his soulmate to call for help.

Frank is out of breath, looks behind his shoulder, but no longer sees the killer. He must have outrun him. A delirious laugh of relief bubbles out of his chest as he slows to a halt. He takes in his surroundings as he lets his lungs get the oxygen they crave. This part of the alley was grimy: the blue and green trash cans were full, cardboard boxes filled with junk littered the ground, and different coloured posters were slapped against the scarred maroon brick. 

The sheer rush of adrenaline instantly fizzles as a new thought occurs to him: _what if the killer went back to his soulmate?_

She couldn’t be dead, because he could still very much see. But he needed to go back to her before it was too late. Despite feeling utterly drained from his run-in with the killer, his stomach still burns with the intense desire to _be with her._ Frank wipes his hand on his jeans before he dials the emergency number. The line rings and his heart begins to pound harder and harder from excitement and something doesn’t feel right—

A gloved hand slips over his mouth, then his hand. Frank becomes as still as a statue then, can do nothing as the hand on his gently pries the phone away from his ear. He can hear a _“911. What’s—”_ before the gloved hand hangs up. 

Cold plastic presses itself against the back of his neck and he hears a masculine voice inquire in sing-song: “Now. Why would you want to do that, lover boy?”

Frank attempts an angry _“what?”_ but the word dies in his throat. This makes the killer chuckle, easy and quiet. He adjusts behind him and Frank needs to fucking kick him and run, but his body is begging him to stay.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” The killer asks in a playful purr, taking the phone from Frank’s loose grasp before his voice drops an octave: _“Tell me you feel it too.”_

Frank is afraid he knows exactly what he means. He stays quiet. The only noise is the sound of their own breathing— but his heart is lying to him, saying it’s a symphony. Displeased by the silence, the killer lets out an almost inaudible sigh. “If you scream, I’ll kill you.”

With that, he moves his hand from the dropout’s mouth to his shoulder, whirling him around so they were face-to-mask. Frank finds himself staring at the dark eyeholes of the mask, unable to see the killer’s face behind it. 

“You can’t kill me,” Frank scowls, regaining his voice, “You’d go blind.”

Ghostface seems pleased with the other’s words. “Oh? So you do know.” His hand flitters towards the bottom of his mask, gripping it as if to lift it. “All I have to do is lock eyes with you and you’re mine forever.”

Frank recoils in horror at the thought, earning an easy-going laugh from the killer. “Relax, I’m only kidding.” The dropout doesn’t quite believe that to be true.

“Listen, I don’t know your face,” Frank tells him, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels, “I can walk away. I never saw you here.”

He only knows the costume now, scarred forever into his memory. The outfit was something out of a Halloween shop— nothing more than a black cloak and hood with jagged sleeves and a belt wrapped around his waist. Maybe in any other setting, it would have been comical. Maybe.

“By all means,” Ghostface gestures vaguely towards the split in the alleyway, and Frank’s eyes follow this movement. “Go ahead. But you know how it works— when we’re this close together, it’ll feel like nothing but agony to leave.”

Frank hasn’t even stepped away more than a few paces, but he knows this to be true. His body feels like it’s been set aflame and each second without his soulmate’s touch feels like a dull ache, one that would only intensify over time. It shouldn’t matter— he’s a rebel. He doesn’t follow the rules of this world, he should leave. Leave right now. His mind is growing increasingly desperate. _Leave._

“I know,” Ghostface sighs again, slipping Frank’s phone into a pocket on the side of his cloak. Frank watches it disappear into the void, his mouth drying. He could still run away. “What a silly little game we’re doomed to play.”

He encircles Frank then, a vulture hungrily eying a corpse. Although the face of his mask never changed, Frank could only see the frightened expression as something sinister and evil. “I was so very fascinated by you— as I watched the life leave Campbell’s eyes, my world returned to its grey state.”

He pauses in front of Frank. “And I thought— _Finally._ Someone who hates the rules of the world as much as I do.” His voice becomes a sneer: “But you came crawling back.”

“I… I heard her scream,” Frank defends himself, stepping back as the killer steps closer. He can’t let the man touch him, he can’t. He isn’t sure how much more of a resistance he can put up, so desperate for his other half it was nothing short of mortifying.

“And you thought you’d swoop in, a knight in shining armor,” Ghostface breathes, “Why, you’re such a _romantic.”_ His voice hardens on the last word.

It dawns on Frank then— for all his taunting, the killer was like him. He too was resisting the urges that his body was more than likely screaming at him. It was why the killer hadn’t looked for him that night, why their worlds had remained dull and colourless. 

_‘How hilarious,’_ he thinks bitterly, _‘I guess we really are made for one another.’_

Frank knows the moment they give in, the moment they lock eyes, all of their resilience will vanish. All they’ll want is one another, at least for the first week or so before their mental states return to normal. It’s all together maddening and cruel— they’ll love each other for the rest of their lives, whether they really want to or not.

The price of seeing the full colour spectrum was much too high. Frank finds himself wishing he’d just left that girl for dead. But it’s too late now. They are birds of prey, trapped within a gilded cage. Without thinking, he has reached up and begun to trace the hard lines of the mask.

Ghostface allows this. Against the white of the mask, the splatters of blood are the brightest red Frank’s ever seen in his life. So vivid. So fascinating. He didn’t know it could be so beautiful. _How would it look in full colour?_

“Take off your mask,” Frank requests, so quietly he isn’t sure he even spoke.

“You’re making a mistake,” Ghostface warns, but his hands are on either side of the mask now. Perhaps the serial killer is hoping he’ll back off, turn tail and run— an ultimate game of chicken. His chest is rising and falling and the dropout can sense his excitement. Frank pulls his own hand away, forcing it to return to his side.

“I know,” is all he replies. Perhaps those are the last words that are truly Frank’s.

With that, the mask comes off. It feels as if time has stopped moving, just for them. Frank’s breath hitches as his eyes lock onto the killer’s, and for a second he thinks the world has returned to its original colours— his eyes are the palest greys he’s ever seen on anyone. The killer’s pupils have dilated, the dark nearly consuming Frank.

From the corners of his vision, the colours have brightened considerably. There are so many he doesn’t know the name of, but none of that _matters_ right now. Right now, his soulmate was in front of him. His soulmate—!

His heart is leaping and dancing within his rib cage as he studies the other man. Oh, it was hard to describe the feeling—! Like he’s complete, like this is all he’s ever lived for! Anything before meeting him was so meaningless, how has he gone on living without him for so long?

The killer is older than Frank, though he could have known that from his voice. There is the faintest of brown stubble around his lower jaw and Frank bets it matches his hair. He reaches up, tugs off the hood of the ghost, and confirms his theory: short brown hair that was in slight disarray from being kept hidden. His skin is slightly darker than Frank’s and under the man’s eyes are purple bags that showed a lack of sleep. 

He was, in Frank’s mind, absolutely perfect.

“Your name,” The killer rasps like speaking has become a great effort for him, _“What’s your name?”_

“Frank.”

“Danny.”

With that, the two of them can no longer content themselves with just looking— they are on each other in an instant, kissing one another as if their very lives depend on it. And perhaps, they do. Frank’s lips ache from the force in which Danny kisses him, but he makes no noise of protest. He’s snagged an arm around the killer’s neck, dragging him closer to consume all he can of him.

Danny tastes better than anything he’s ever had in his life. Frank could stay like this forever; the bliss that washes over him feels so, _so_ good. There are no thoughts about how stupid the system was or how afraid he was of this love— there is only Danny, Danny, Danny. 

Maybe there had only ever been Danny. 

He needs more, he _needs_ to have all of him. It is what his body was made for, to be interlocked with his. He lets out a breathy cry as he feels the killer grind against him with the same desperation Frank feels. Danny pushes him against the brick and a groan of pain and pleasure escapes him— the action was not meant to be unkind, but it seemed the killer could not contain his ferocity.

The dropout clings to him, digging his nails into the odd fabric of the man’s costume. It felt loose against his fingers, a bit scratchy as well. But he does not linger on it too long. He feels teeth graze his flesh before they bite down. There is something primal about the way his soulmate nips at his skin, no doubt leaving bruises that would be as colourful as his tattoos. 

Danny mutters something in his ear, something about his jeans, and Frank realizes that the man is attempting to unbutton them. Frank snorts at the failed attempt and his hand slides from the man’s back towards his front, to his hands. “Maybe it’d be easier,” Frank informs him, “If you took off your gloves.”

“Maybe,” Danny returns in a low and slightly irritated manner, though he allows Frank to tug them off his hands. The killer pockets them, which upsets Frank more than it should. Part of him wanted to keep them, stroke them when Danny wasn’t around… His train of thought is broken when the man returns to his prize, squeezing the dropout’s cock around his jeans.

Frank had never known he could whimper, but he does just that, so needy with just the mere idea of Danny’s hand on his cock. He takes a fistful of the dark costume. _“Danny, touch me.”_

“I’m already touching you,” Danny taunts, continuing to stroke him through the denim. Frank pushes himself closer towards his hand, hoping and praying that the man would give him the relief that his body yearned for. 

_“Danny,”_ Frank despises how weak his voice comes out because it’s taking everything in him not to beg for it. But damn if he doesn’t want to get on his hands and knees and worship every piece of the killer.

The man gives a dark chuckle, evidently pleased to still have some type of power despite giving into the natural order of things. “Oh, alright,” he drawls, like it's a great effort for him. Frank lets out a whimper as Danny finally frees his cock from its imprisonment, beginning to lazily stroke him. 

_“Oh, f-fuck.”_

His cool hand on his warm skin— it was amazing. Wonderful. Frank knew it would be. They were made for one another, after all! He leans into the man’s chest, breathing in the smell of shitty cologne.

“Hmm?” Danny glances down at him, eyes glinting with amusement. He gives him one quick stroke before he returns to his languish pace that makes Frank jerk involuntarily. “Is this already enough for you?”

“N-no, I want... I want more, Danny…”

“I guess if you insist,” Danny says before he begins to pump him faster and faster. Frank is seeing stars, stars of all types of colours, and he arches his body upwards in order to collide his lips against Danny’s once more. He wants the rest of this shitty world to know that the killer was _his._ He drags his teeth against his lower lips before biting down, making sure it bleeds. Making sure it’ll scar.

The action draws a moan from Danny; the hand around his cock stills and tightens. Frank does not waste the opportunity, slipping his tongue into the killer’s mouth. They relish in the taste of each other, only pulling apart when they’ve both gone breathless and their lips numb. 

Danny’s eyes fixate on Frank’s bruised lips, on his own blood that stained the dropout. “You look amazing in red,” he whispers against him, like he’s telling the other a dangerous secret. This is enough to tip Frank over the edge, spilling himself in the murderer’s hand. 

He’s never had an orgasm so intense before, _oh._ It would be impossible to describe it— as if the heavens have opened up and he’s been selected for the rapture. It had not been his first handjob, of course, but no one could have done it better than his soulmate. See, their bodies were like two puzzle pieces linked together— it was how they were meant to be, how they should _always_ be.

Frank meets Danny’s eyes, sees the hunger and lust within them, and knows he is thinking the same. The man smirks at him, licking his palm to clean up the mess Frank had made. He knows that Danny would only ever be so satisfied with him. Frank wants to make him feel good and he knows Danny wants him to.

The dropout falls on his knees, not giving a shit about how painfully he hit the concrete below or how dirty it was. The killer helps him by pushing aside his cloak and Frank is only half-surprised to see dark pants behind the costume. He supposes it was practical. Frank’s head is still stuck in the afterglow that he momentarily forgets how to unzip pants, but manages to release Danny’s already hard cock.

“You’re eager for my dick, aren’t you?” Danny sneers.

He delicately presses his thumb against the tip, enthralled by how pink the head already was. 

“You’re eager for my mouth, aren’t you?” Frank coyly returns, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes.

This elicits a wanton laugh from the other, his hand coiling into the dropout’s hair. “Why don’t you put those pretty lips of yours to _better_ use?” Danny tightens his grip around those soft chestnut locks and pushes his head down towards his dick. 

Frank stifles a snort before he does just what his soulmate commands of him, parting his mouth and taking in the head that was so tantalizing to Frank. He gives him a slow suck, a bit of payback for the man’s strokes. A breathy huff of aggravation is heard from above him. He continues this pace for just a bit longer, but it becomes so hard with each noise that Danny makes. 

So he takes in more of the man, swiping his tongue against his skin, contenting himself with feeling Danny’s cock pulse. His hands gently knead his balls, making sure that he’s taking care of each and every part of his soulmate. He’s nearly to the base when he pushes back against Danny’s hand, his lungs beginning to cry out for air. The killer doesn’t release him. He glances up, a bit desperate to fucking breathe, but Danny’s eyes are closed. 

“You’re doing so good, why stop?” He murmurs out into the chilly Ormond air, pushing Frank further down. Frank gags as Danny’s tip meets his throat, as it slides down even a bit further than that, and it's only until Frank is heaving against him does Danny let him go.

Frank pulls off, his chest quickly rising and falling as he sucks in as much air as he can. He wipes the dribble that’s a mix of saliva and precum off his chin. Danny’s eyes have opened partly, the greys staring down at him. “You should see yourself right now. All pretty and red in the face.”

He should feel fucking angry. _He should._ In fact, a small part of his brain is yelling at him and berating him. But he can not hear it over the endorphins that have released throughout his body, sending waves of pleasure just knowing that Danny was feeling pleasure. After regaining his breath, Frank returns to servicing Danny’s cock.

It does not take much longer for the man to orgasm and Frank greedily makes sure to swallow as much of it as he can. He then releases him with a pop. Some of his seed trails down his lips, but he swipes his tongue to clean it off him. Danny tastes absolutely heavenly.

They remain there for what feels like hours, the two of them marveling in silence over the intensity of their newfound love. Then, Danny extends his hand and Frank takes it. He is pulled up to his feet and the two redress themselves. Danny presses his forehead against the dropout’s, listening to each other breathe in synchronization. 

“Come with me,” Danny urges him. Frank is pleased with the pure want in his voice. “We’ll finish this crime and you can come back to my place. I _need_ you by my side.”

“Of course,” Frank answers because it’s just that simple.

He does not even have to hesitate— he’d follow his soulmate to the very ends of the earth if that’s what Danny requested of him. He knows that if he asked, Danny would do the same for him. It is simply the way the world works. They were together now, that’s the only thing that had any meaning to him. 

In a world full of colour, there is no room for black and white moralities.

There was only room for his soulmate.

**Author's Note:**

> ty to my beta readers megidola & bwoo for ur help on this one !!


End file.
